


Gonna Make Your Blood Run Cold

by LadyLaela (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Implied Incest, Kink Meme, M/M, Psychosis, Rape/Non-con References, Serial Killers, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LadyLaela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of the blood became overwhelming, and John could feel breath on his face. He didn't shift an inch – he was not tied up, but he knew better. Dave's lips pressed ever so slightly against his, in a kiss that was not at all rough or violating. It was a chaste, gentleman's kiss, and not the first Dave had given him.</p><p>This fic will have multiple endings, some sadder/more disturbing than others. Warnings for everything ever. Written for someone on the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't choose which ending I wanted to head towards, so you get seven endings. You'll get to make two choices, and you will make them by skipping ahead to the chapter indicated.
> 
> If you choose door number one, go to the second chapter of this fic.
> 
> If you choose door number two, go to the third chapter of this fic.

The door creaked open, and John could smell blood in the air, cloyingly heavy.

He was back.

John choked back his fear as he felt a gentle hand card through his hair. Dave had never struck him, never even raised his voice, but even without the usual stench of blood, without the knowledge he'd just killed someone John would never even know the name of, the man would still be terrifying. It was something that bubbled under the surface with him – some sort of dark psychosis. Somehow, John knew if he didn't obey every word, Dave would make him sorry. He didn't even have to be threatened to know that.

“Hey there, John,” there was that soft, Texan-accented voice. It was always soft, always gentle, just like the fingers running again and again through John's hair. “M'sorry I ain't gotten t'speak to ya in the last couple days. Been busy, y'know?” a fingertip trailed down his cheek, and he tried to repress any trembling.

It became clear Dave was waiting for some sort of answer, and John's voice broke a little with disuse as he spoke. “Y-yes. It's okay.”

“I guess I'm forgiven. I broughtcha some food, o'course. S'here by the door.” Fingers caressed his throat now, and he gave a tiny whine despite himself. Dave had never hurt him, but something about those fingers seemed greedy to snap a neck or crush a windpipe.

The smell of the blood became overwhelming, and John could feel breath on his face. He didn't shift an inch – he was not tied up, but he knew better. Dave's lips pressed ever so slightly against his, in a kiss that was not at all rough or violating. It was a chaste, gentleman's kiss, and not the first Dave had given him.

“You're getting dirty again,” Dave muttered, still only a hair away. John could not see him, but felt his visceral energy right through the blindfold. “I'll bring y'a sponge n'water.”

With that, he was gone.

 

“David Strider, you are one sick fuck,” Bro said, mouth pulled back in a toothy smirk.

“I'm not the one who fucked the dead bitch,” Dave grumbled, giving up on the buttons of his bloody shirt and just yanking it off, smearing the stuff on his face but paying little mind.

Bro was playing with a six inch blade, watching it flash as it span in his expert hands. He still looked amused, but it was rare he didn't. “Fucked her b'fore she was dead, and y'know it. Be fuckin serious, lil bro. Could've at least washed that shit off before y'paid your lil visit, there.”

The rest of Dave's ruined clothes followed quickly, and he stood nonchalantly naked as he tossed them into the fire. “I ain't makin excuses t'you, and ya know it.”

“Wasn't askin for em,” Bro shrugged, going crosseyed as he held the blade right in front of his face, caressing the perfect edge of the steel with his gaze. Suddenly, his tongue came out and he gave a long, languid lick, blood welling and instantly diluting in his saliva as the knife sliced flesh and muscle effortlessly.

Dave took no notice. He was used to Bro's bullshit.

“You gonna put those two fuckers in y'collection?” Blood stained the lines between his teeth as he talked, gesturing lazily at the jar containing the hearts of the couple they'd sliced up and dumped into the ravine; a rare joint venture.

“You're sayin it like it's some sorta question.” Still naked, Dave brought the jar over to his workbench in the corner of the basement, unscrewing it and dumping them both in a medical pan. Bro remained on the couch, but was still easy to hear over the hiss of the formaldehyde tap.

“Shit's gonna rot your brain, bro,” the blood was running down his chin now, “make you crazy.”

Dave sighed, leaving the jars to fill and stalking back over to his brother. “Who's the sick fuck?” he sounded almost tired, bending down and grabbing his chin with stern affection, licking him quickly across the lips to clean the blood away.

Bro's blood tasted good; all steel and heat and safety. He recieved an answering lick up the cheek, and rolled his eyes at the streak of spit and blood that he knew was there now.

“What,” Bro said, raising both brows. “Y'gotta shower anyways, lil man.”

 

Karkat pinned up a glossy print of the newest crime scene with such fury that the head of the pushpin dented the corkboard above his desk. There hadn't been a single thing to identify the killer – not a hair or a fingerprint. The fucker was mocking them now. He'd grabbed the victim's face with a leather-gloved hand, leaving smooth marks where any other idiot would have left incriminating evidence.

“My gog, Kaykay. Go home.”

“Oh fuck off,” Karkat snarled, not bothering to turn around. “I have work to do, unlike some lazy assholes.”

He could almost hear Sollux rolling his eyes. “Everyone elthe left an hour ago. Do it tomorrow like a normal human being.”

“I'm on to something,” Karkat growled under his breath, gaze roving over the cluttered corkboard and its many glossy photos, lab results and notes scrawled in angry, red sharpie capitals.

Sollux's chin suddenly rested on his shoulder. “You aren't going to catcth him. I don't think anyone ith, but it definitely won't be you. You've been working here for what, a year now? Terezthi'th one of the betht detectiveth in the country. If the'th no where near him, you aren't either.”

Karkat shrugged violently enough to dislodge him, snarling. “Shut up, you useless lisping fuck! You're just the bastard running fucking google earth for us, what the fuck do you know?”

As usual, Sollux didn't even raise his voice. “Exthept I do a lot more than that. I do thingth profethhional hackerth dream about, and then wet the bed like little babieth becauthe they know they can never do it. I know he can't be caught, Kaykay. There'th nothing there.”

“You fucking egotistical fuckwad, you-”

Sollux just cut him off in that same soft, pedantic tone. “No one'th going to catcth him unlethh he wanth to be caught. I'm thure you've noticthed the frequencthy of the crimeth? He doethn't care. And if thith ith what he'th like when he'th not caring, no one hath a hope. I don't think we even know all the thit he'th done. Tho jutht go home. You're not going to find anything new by thtaying up all night. I doubt there'th even much to find.”

“So we're just going to let more people die?” Karkat exploded. “Are you serious? Do you have some sort of a mancrush on this sick fuck? Do you-”

“... no. I'm jutht being realithtic. Thomeone hath to be.”


	2. Door Number One

Part of John hated himself for it, but he was getting used to Dave. His daily visits went from terrifying to almost routine.

He had nothing to do but sit in the little room and think.

It wasn't such a bad room. It was more of a closet, only five foot square, but it was carpeted and had a blanket and pillow in the corner and one of those fold out toilets with a bag underneath in the other corner. He was fed daily, and Dave always came in and fawned over him and touched him with respectful and – John had no doubt about it now – caring hands.

John was pretty sure that the food was the same stuff Dave was eating. It certainly wasn't dry bread crusts, anyways.

The blindfold was ever present, leather and tight and locked in place. Sometimes his eyes itched, but it was actually padded and quite comfortable, considering.

John had no delusions that Dave keeping him here wasn't wrong. However, where he'd first hated and feared the man for keeping him prisoner, he was starting to feel sorry for him.

It was obvious to John that Dave meant him no harm. He probably honestly felt he was doing good by keeping John locked up here. All John had was time to think about the way Dave acted, and it was becoming clear that he was less a bad person and more a very, very disturbed man.

He killed people. This much John knew. Moreover, he didn't really seem to regret it. He didn't talk about it much, though. As John got braver, he started prompting him to talk a little more, and heard a lot about his brother; someone he'd actually caught on earlier was in the building with them. It was evident that Dave adored him, just as evident as it was that he craved love and affection.

Once John realized what a pathetic creature Dave was (just like the little broken-winged crow he'd been chastised for bringing home as a child) he couldn't help but give it to him.

When Dave entered the room, John leaned forwards a little instead of kneeling stalk still. As usual, Dave stroked his hair and crouched down in front of him, draping a freshly washed blanket over his shoulders. “I was thinkin it's about time y'got a new one.”

John thanked him with a brief kiss to the cheek – Dave was clean today, smelling of soap and himself instead of blood. John had never thought of what people smelled like, but he supposed that while he was wearing the blindfold that was something he paid more attention to. He certainly knew what Dave smelled like. He was all spice and determination and fire, and sometimes chemicals and sometimes another man that John had always assumed must be his brother.

The reaction he got was the reason he did it. When he treated Dave like that, the man started acting more like a normal person; a rather sweet and needy one at that. Dave nuzzled his hair in return, moving closer, and John was happy to give him whatever contact he asked for. It was moments like this that made it easy to forget the things Dave was guilty of.

John had started thinking that Dave _deserved_ someone who forgot what he was guilty of.

 

“What do you even intend on doin with him, lil man?”

As Dave walked past the couch, Bro crawled languidly along it to keep up with him. “I mean, he ain't even seen y'face. N'somethin tells me y'ain't waitin til ya get bored t'kill him.”

“M'keepin him for now,” Dave said, and, as usual, his voice threatened anger.

“I noticed,” Bro stretched out, bowing his back and settling down across the couch, red eyes half-hidden by shades following Dave's movement as he paced, looking thoughtful. “I don' get what you got for him. He ain't so special. Only so pretty as everythin else we kill. Why doncha let him see ya? Don' y'wanna see the fear in his eyes as y'fuck him? That's the magic of that shit, you know.”

Dave just answered with a grunt, ignoring his brother's slow smile.

“Y'keep that hood on him so y'don't scare him, doncha. What, y'think you can make him love you? Don't think I don' fuckin notice,” there was a hidden venom in those words, something no one but Dave would have heard. “You won't even leave for a day, cause you won' let me feed him. Y'know I ain't gonna hurt your lil pet. Or he could jus go without a day or two. Wouldn' hurt him.”

Dave's lips tightened into a thin line, but he sat on the edge of the couch, Bro's hip against his back. His brother sat up, looping thin arms around him, nuzzling against his ear like a cat. “Daaaave,” he crooned. “Daaave. You can't make him love you. Y'know that. Can't make someone love you. Momma tried that, remember? We cut her heart out. You were the one that stuffed it in her whore mouth, Dave. The only one who's ever gonna love you s'me. It's jus you n'me, lil man. Alwaaays.”

Letting his shoulders sag, Dave let the anger drain out of him. He relaxed into Bro's embrace, resting their heads together. “Yeah. I know.”

 

Terezi never stopped yelling.

Karkat never really did either, but that didn't mean he couldn't be annoyed at her for it. As Sollux would point out, he was annoyed at everyone for everything. Ever. Especially himself.

She was rambling on at a completely unnecessary volume about MOs and justice and fuck knew what else, and Karkat just couldn't bring himself to give a shit. There was no limit to the shits he did not give. Eventually he'd have to tune into her bullshit to nab any new lab results, but now was not that time.

Suddenly she was behind him. “Karkat, did you call those two profilers yet? I bet you didn't!” she cackled at him, and it made him want to punch her in the face. Punch himself in the face. Punch everyone in the face.

Especially the smarmy bipolar fuck planted on his computer over there. The waves of smug were just radiating off of that bastard.

“No, I didn't,” he said through gritted teeth, practically vibrating with anger. “You know Maryam's useless, I drew up a fucking profile last night and I bet it's way more accurate and-”

Terezi cut him off with a shriek of laughter. “Nice try!” then she was quite literally nose to nose with him and hell if that wasn't terrifying. “But you better remember who's in charge around here.”

His body failed to obey him and unfreeze until she'd walked down the corridor and turned a corner.

Then Sollux's elbows were resting on his shoulders. “You jutht pithhed yourthelf, didn't you?”

 _”I will punch you-”_

 

John talked with him for a little while, about inane things, mostly. Dave seemed so tired that day, but he started to perk up after a bit of time in John's company, and that made John so proud of himself. It was just like making that little crow all better.

Dave's soft twang was actually quite charming. How had he ever thought it was threatening at all?

“Would y'mind,” it was almost a shy question, and Dave was holding John against his chest like he was afraid he'd break him, dark head tucked protectively under his chin. “If I took that blindfold off of ya?”

John sat up a little. “Of course I wouldn't, Dave! You're going to let me see you? Oh gosh.”

He could almost feel Dave's happiness. He nuzzled up against John's cheek and there was the slight clink of keys being taken from something on Dave's chest – a necklace? - and coming around to the lock at the back of his head. The man's soft voice was directly in his ear when he spoke. “I can't wait t'see your eyes again. S'what made me fall in love with you, y'know.”

John rubbed awkwardly at his eyes, scratching the skin that'd been hidden so long as the blindfold dropped away. There was nearly no light in the room; only what came in through the crack under the door, but it was still enough to make his eyes sting after so long in darkness. He had to close them again immediately and they watered so much it must look like he was weeping.

Dave pulled his head back down to his chest and petted his hair, and after a few moments, John could look up.

He'd thought about Dave's appearance before, of course – it was unavoidable. The high cheekbones were no surprise, nor were the rather long nose and strong jaw. He was quite handsome, too. It was the red hair and freckles he hadn't expected.

Never mind that, though. The red eyes were definitely the weirdest part.

Dave quickly closed them and looked away, obviously self conscious, but John just smiled and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Door number one, choose chapter four  
> Door number two, choose chapter five  
> Door number three, choose chapter six


	3. Door Number Two

John lived in a constant state of terror.

Dave was dangerous. It was something he always knew, couldn't ever possibly forget. The man was all blood and guilt, and with each passing day John was increasingly sure that he didn't have a sane bone in his body.

The room he was imprisoned in was tiny, and usually ended up stinking from the portable bagged toilet in the corner. He couldn't even stretch out properly, and was left to curl up in the corner with a blanket. He was always hungry, what with only one cold meal a day; and he never felt clean.

The blindfold made his prison a hell. He had to fumble to do anything, clumsily feeling in front of him for food or bed or toilet. He still cried at night – well, he thought it was night – thinking about his home, his family, what Dave was going to do to him and how it felt to be free.

One day, Dave would come with whatever blade it was he'd used on the nameless many, and slice John to ribbons. On many nights, he was sure of this.

Sometimes he had hope. Maybe if he just did what Dave said, just waited a little longer, he could go free. He had no idea what it was Dave wanted from him. Some sick amusement? Was he running some experiment or something, to see how he'd react? That was in a lot of the kinds of movies John didn't like watching.

Surely, if all he wanted was to kill John or rape him, he would have just done it already.

 

Dave couldn't sleep.

His brother was half splayed out across his chest, mostly naked and head tucked against his shoulder. It had always been like this, or something close. Their neglectful bitch mom had left them nothing but each other. Bro was a little older, so once he'd been bigger and Dave had slept curled into his side, but Dave ended up filling out more than his brother could ever dream of, ending up tall and broad shouldered, not stocky but less whip thin than Bro was.

Suddenly Dave was more the protector, managing his brother's psychosis and keeping him out of the way of any investigations. Bro was less careful. Care did not occur to him.

Dave might have ended up with one hell of a potent temper, but care was something he knew all about.

As he watched Bro move, make a soft sound in his sleep, brows knitting together; Dave was reminded of the other reason he was so protective. Not like anyone could ever forget being about ten and watching their barely pubescent brother get held down by their mother's terrifying bear of a boyfriend or whatever it was she called that thing.

Even if Dave could forget him hiding in the bathroom to cry, forget prying the lock to get in and comfort him, he couldn't forget it happening for almost six years. He couldn't forget that Bro did it so he would be spared.

He nuzzled into Bro's hair, dragging him closer. No one else had ever fucking loved him. Who would? His mind flashed briefly to John, locked away safely and blindfolded... but then to his mother, bringing them home presents – too little, too late. She could not make up for fifteen years of insults, of locking them in their room, of giving them nothing...

His mother's blood. Everywhere and bright and he'd hacked with the knife until he could pry her apart and she'd fucking deserved it.

Bro had helped, but abandoned the corpse sooner, far too fascinated with the blade on his own skin.

He always had been.

His body was the evidence, almost more scarred than freckled. He loved to lick the blood off the blade, but only his own, or Dave's – and as little regard as he had for his own hide, he went frantic over any little mark on his younger brother. He only allowed himself the treat of Dave's blood when he was already injured.

Bro stirred in his arms, blinking open red eyes and resting his chin lazily on Dave's chest, looking up at him. “What?” he mumbled sleepily, dragging himself up just a little further to groom Dave's cheek with his tongue.

“Nothin,” Dave grunted. “Insomnia. Fuck off back to sleep.”

Bro just chuckled and rubbed noses with him. “If y'got laid I betcha could sleep. Y'got that lil treat jus in the other room, bro. C'mon. What's stoppin ya?”

Dave made a noncommittal sound and very pointedly did not look at him.

He still caught Bro rolling his eyes, however. “He ain't gonna want it, if that's what y'waitin for. We both fuckin know that. He ain't gonna love you n'more than momma did. Y'only gonna get him if y'take him.”

A little bit of the anger came through in Dave's voice. “Other people get sex without takin it.”

Bro narrowed his eyes. “Tha's what y'fuckin think. I don' believe it. S'all tricks n'lies, trickin people into thinkin it's okay n'they want it and it ain't gonna hurt a bit, yeah?”

Dave couldn't blame him for thinking that way. He really couldn't.

 

Even with the help of several of the country's top criminal profilers, they'd still gotten less than nowhere. Leijon might be an amazing mugshot artist, but it was a little hard for her to draw up a sketch when there were no living eyewitnesses. They were left pouring over MOs and quirks and pattern tracking and everyone was sick to death of it and Sollux looked like he might cry if he ever saw another spreadsheet. Even Maryam looked about ready to find a gun.

Terezi, of course, just marched on as ever, and Karkat buried himself deeper and deeper into the details of the cases.

“The variable MO is what I find by far the most troubling,” Kanaya enunciated, knocking her stack of papers against the desk to straighten them. “Most killers of this caliber have one that is very strictly defined, whereas this differs slightly from case to case.”

Terezi picked it up, voice loud and obnoxious, but passionate. “Some of the victims have been brutally raped, but all had their nether regions doused in lighter fluid!”

“All have also had their hearts expertly removed with a blade.” Kanaya continued calmly, but she looked tired and at her wit's end. They'd been repeating the same things for hours.

“And the bastard's fucking ambidextrous because there's been left and right handed cuts, we fucking know!” Karkat growled. “Can we just shut up already?”

“You're the one who thtayth after work cauthe he'th convincthe he'th tholved everything,” Sollux grumbled, rubbing his temples.

Karkat stood up. “When did I say that? I never once fucking said that!” He bared his teeth and pounded his fist on the table.

“Order in the court!” Terezi bellowed, cackling as Karkat sat down, fuming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Door number one, choose chapter seven  
> Door number two, choose chapter eight  
> Door number three, choose chapter nine  
> Door number four, choose chapter ten


	4. Door Number One - Ending A

John perked up as soon as he heard someone fussing with the door. Dave! He'd been missing him all day.

The door swung open and a shadow slipped inside. Immediately, John knew something was off. “Dave?” he asked the darkness. The smell was wrong. Dave's spice and fire was very faint, and he caught a hint of something that was steel and copper and not Dave at all. He was suddenly too afraid to move.

The figure knelt before him. It was... almost Dave, but the red eyes were too wide and and this man was smiling. Dave never smiled. It could only be his brother.

John told himself not to be scared. It was obvious the brothers were very close, and of course the elder wouldn't want to do anything to upset Dave. Of course not. It didn't matter that this one was clearly insane, because Dave loved John and Dave's brother wanted him to be happy.

Right?

Slowly, the man cocked his head to the side. Oh my gosh this was so unnerving, if he would just say something...

John's gaze drifted to the long, sharp blade that the man span around his hand; again and again and again. It was mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time; he handled the knife with such obvious skill.

John did not move an inch. He did not know where this was going or what was expected of him. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wanted Dave right now.

The blade stopped spinning.

“John,” the man's voice was very soft, with an undertone that was almost pleading. “Would you like to play?”

 

When Dave got home, the basement was very dark and still. This didn't make sense; Bro always had five things on at once, and that wasn't even including the lights.

“Bro? You around?” Dave called out, just before he spotted him. He was leaned over Dave's workbench – an area he was supposed to leave alone. “Bro, get out of there...” he went towards him, reaching forwards to grab his elbow.

Bro turned, a filled jar in his hands and an expression of almost childlike pride on his face. “I did this all myself, lil man. Here,” he cheerfully handed over the jar. It contained a heart, like the rest of them did, and was sealed – if a little messily.

Dave let his lips quirk just the tiniest bit. “Thanks, Bro. But don' go messin with my shit again, okay?” he placed the jar on a shelf with the others, then he paused. “I thought you weren't goin out today.”

“Didn',” Bro said without a moment's hesitation.

Dave's eyebrows shot up. “What d'ya mean, y'didn't?” Oh god, not the postman again. Dave was not feeling picking up and leaving right this second.

“Stayed here n'looked after your pet,” Bro said, still smiling vaguely. “Don' have to worry about him no more.”

Dave froze. He couldn't breathe. He knew Bro far too well not to know exactly what he meant. “You...” his voice was airy and strained and not his at all.

Feeding off his mood as always, Bro tensed up, but he looked confused. “He was hurtin you. Trickin you. I ain't gonna let anyone hurt my lil bro-”

Without warning, Dave's anger boiled over. He was beyond sense and thought and he grabbed his smaller brother forcibly by the shoulder and flung him against the wall. All he could see was John, dead like his mother, but John loved him _somebody loved him_...

Bro didn't fight back. He barely stood his ground. “I did it for you,” he said, and it was evident in his voice that he did truly believe it, but Dave didn't care and he pinned him to the wall and struck again and again and Bro was coughing and trying to grab his wrists but he wouldn't fight back. His brother's pleas fell on deaf ears; his mind was only full of _everything gets taken away_ and _he loved me_ and he'd never struck Bro in his life but his rage was blind and he was on top of his brother on the floor. Every nerve screamed with tension and adrenaline burned through him and made him shake as he bore down, and now Bro looked scared but he didn't see it.

He couldn't see it.

Bro's windpipe crunched under his hand, and it did not take long for the weakly fluttering pulse to die away.

For a long moment, Dave did not move. The adrenaline syphoned out and left him exhausted, and with every breath his eyes widened more in shock. Numbly, he raised a hand and let his fingertips ghost over Bro's cheek. The tremor started there, spread to his whole body as he stared into dead eyes that he couldn't look away from.

“... Bro?” his voice was a child's, he was six and had been hungry for days, he was ten and why was Bro crying. “Bro?” but he knew he wouldn't answer, knew it in the empty pain that throbbed in his chest.

He'd never felt guilt. Not for a single one of the people he'd killed; not for all of them combined, and sure as hell not for his mother. Now, it was crushing him like he'd crushed his brother's throat, crumpling him like paper in its hand.

He'd killed the only person who'd always been in his life, who'd loved him since birth and they'd sat on the bed, starving and clasped hands and _together forever_ , the only person who'd needed him and whom he'd needed and...

Dave crawled into the corner and was violently ill.

Then he was weeping, tethered to the corpse by some emotional umbilical cord and crying into that familiar chest, now still and cold and there was no reassuring thud of a heartbeat. He leaned up and started grooming Bro's cheek, desperately, hopefully, hopelessly.

Bro hadn't even fought _back_. He wouldn't raise a goddamn finger against his little brother, even to save his fucking life. Dave could barely remember through the all-obscuring miasma that was his rage, but he knew Bro had done little but pushed at him, when he could have broken his fucking arm.

He had his knife in his belt. He always had.

Bro hadn't even gone for his blade, the blade that _was_ his left hand. Dave felt bile rising again.

 _Why_ could he still remember the fear in Bro's eyes, why that and little else.

He knew he could not be spared. He knew and he didn't want to be. His gaze slid with disinterest over the closet door, and now he could see the blood pooling into the column of light, the dim shape that must be John's body.

Dave could not find it in himself to care. Part of him hated John. Without John, he never would have done this. He never would have hurt his brother and he'd have him here right now. If Dave hadn't been so selfish and greedy, if he'd only been happy with what he had...

The many jars on the shelves crowded him coldly, not accusing, only so much meaningless garbage. He clung to Bro's hand, and it was already cold, the fingers stiffening, and there was no point any more.

Suddenly Dave was so tired; so overwhelmingly tired. He was always tired, he could never sleep, but now the mental exhaustion overwhelmed him and he knew he was done.

Long done.

He pulled the perfectly, lovingly sharpened blade from his brother's belt. Bro's favorite – the grip worn in from years of constant handling.

Dave looked down at his chest, and positioned the tip just to the left of his heart.

He pressed down with all of his strength.

Pain blossomed in him so white hot and flooding that he could not move, his hand barely obeyed him as he gripped the handle and pulled.

Heat seeped down his chest and stomach. He could feel and _hear_ his heartbeat everywhere, and he coughed, coughed like Bro had when grabbed by the throat, and there was little flecks of blood on his lips. He could taste them, and it was comforting. He squeezed his brother's hand and moved the knife down a little and shoved it in again.

Again.

Again.

“I'm sorry...” Dave spluttered, or tried to. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

Again.

Bro was there and he told him it was okay, he forgave him, and he squeezed Dave's hand back and said it didn't matter, now they were safe and they had each other and that meant everything was okay.

Again.

The basement faded away, blood flowed over his hands for the millionth time but now it was his, and Bro's, but Bro didn't bleed a single drop. He could hear Bro's voice, intonation but no words, and for a moment he was sure everything really would be all right.

But his brother was dead, and there was no voice, and there was nothing but cold concrete and cold body and cooling blood. There was that, and then there was nothing at all.

 

“I guess that's that,” Terezi said, her mouth twisting down a little. For once, she didn't cackle. With the investigations of that basement finally over, she just looked tired and annoyed.

“I thtill can't believe he tried to cut hith own heart out,” Sollux muttered, stacking his spreadsheets and tracking maps and tucking them into the bulging folder.

This was not how it was supposed to end, Karkat thought as he glared at the 'case closed' folder. It was supposed to end with the guy in jail after being brought right the fuck to justice. It pissed him right off that the bastard had managed to finish it on his own terms.

The killings had stopped months ago, leaving them all far more confused when before. Eventually, a neighbour reported the smell coming from the townhouse and it'd been immediately obvious from the jars and the dripping formaldehyde tap that they'd found him.

And they never would have if he hadn't been fucking _dead_ , and that made Karkat grind his teeth until his head hurt.

Then, weeks of examining decomposing bodies. The two found together were brothers. The one who'd done himself in was right handed, probably, and then maybe the brother was left handed or maybe he wasn't involved at all. It pissed Karkat off to no fucking end that this thing was done, that they were closing it, and all they had was guesses.

Yeah, the bastard was gone and death was probably far too kind for him. It wasn't going to happen any more, and technically their job was done. But what the fuck was the how and the why and they'd never know what that kid had been doing there, just some college student that'd gone missing months and months ago. Kidnapping wasn't part of the fucking MO.

He watched an intern take the thick file, disappearing with it into the stacks. There'd be other cases, life would go on, and no matter how fucking prolific this guy had gotten, people would forget.

Karkat would never know what had happened in that basement.

It really got to him.

 

END. Wanna play again?


End file.
